Bad Touch
by a crime so low
Summary: "It must be the reason that he writes the word 'Desire' and spends the next fifteen minutes trying to talk around it." In which Blaine is the new kid and Will really only wants to help. Until he doesn't.


**title**: Bad Touch  
><strong>pairing<strong>: Schue/Blaine  
><strong>rating<strong>: PG13.  
><strong>summary<strong>: In which Blaine is the new kid and all Will really wants is to help (until he doesn't.) **  
>warningsspoilers**: Angst. UST. Inappropriate Student/Teacher relations, Schue creeping (like he does). Ambiguous ethics/feelings. AU following 2x09.  
><strong>disclaimer<strong>: The characters aren't mine.  
><strong>wordcount<strong>: 6,000_ish_  
><strong>notes<strong>: This was originally written way back when for the prompt "After deciding that he _likes_ the freedom of performance that goes on in New Directions, Blaine decides to ditch Dalton for McKinley. Cue Will being the school tour guide, showing Blaine the ropes, and obviously possibly more. UST, schmoop, smut, I don't even _care_, just... just go. Go now. " at The Blaine Sails A Ship Without Kurt Meme on LJ. After all the LJ problems of late I'm backing up all my writing over here.

* * *

><p>He arrives to whispers that spread like wildfire, two weeks to the day that Kurt Hummel strides determinedly back through the doors of William McKinley High.<p>

The noise is what gets to Will, what drags his focus from the everyday juggle of keys and papers and coffee and the constant _thump-thump-thump_ of his satchel into his hip. It's a slow-building murmur, separate to the usual hum of teenage chatter. It snatches up conversations about the game and Coach Sylvester's latest bout of insanity and who's hooking up with whom and swallows them whole.

It's all scandal and intrigue and Will looks, how could he _not_, because the noise punches right through even the blinders he uses to navigate student populated areas of the school. It's a murmuring that stills to dead silence as _they _bustle through, elbows locked together and bumping shoulders.

Kurt is laughing at something _he_ has said but Will can see unease in the sharp set of his shoulders and the nervous dart of his eyes that takes in the many staring faces. But him, _he _is bright and oblivious, broad smiles and open laughter. Will knows him only from firm handshakes, polite smiles and nods in a doorway and that easy charm he exudes on a stage. He doesn't know him like this, the bright, pretty thing surrounded by a population that will clamor all over themselves for the chance to break.

It's the tie that gets to him, a splash of bold yellow against stark black (silk, the kind of thing Will can't reason into his wardrobe on a teacher's salary) that speaks of expensive tastes and an inability to shed the habits of the environment he's left behind. It is a bulls-eye, a freshly painted target and Will can feel his breath catch uncomfortably in his throat at the sight.

Kurt knows it too, Will can see it in the uneasy shift of his eyes as they sweep past a cluster of Letterman jackets, the way he briefly meets Will's eyes as he guides his (what? Friend? More-than-friend?) through his own daily gauntlet.

They've disappeared down another corridor, whispers resurrecting in their wake when Will realizes he's been standing, staring for too long. The kids are staring at _him_ as he hurries off to his office, sipping at his lukewarm coffee and unable to clear the buzzing from his ears.

.

The name Blaine Anderson doesn't appear in the role call of any of his classes. He catches glimpses of him in the halls that day, shepherded between classes by Kurt (who at all times has a tail of at least two New Directions members looking out for him) and Will waits for his turn to come, to step in and introduce himself and be _that _teacher for Blaine as he is for the rest of his kids.

But he doesn't appear in the music room that afternoon. Kurt bustles in alone, still giddy at his reunion with New Directions and pretending he doesn't notice he is being ghosted through the door by both Puck and Mike.

The sight should make him smile. Instead he raises his hand to the board and hesitates, the smell of the marker burning in his nostrils and his vision swimming, which must be the reason that he writes the word, _Desire _and spends the next fifteen minutes trying to talk around it.

.

Will knows that he let Kurt down. That he failed to be the teacher that he always thought he was; the kind who cared about his students, who would do anything for them, who _notices_. He promises the mirror that he will not fail his kids again.

This is why Blaine is sitting in his office, his hair dripping and curling over bright, wary eyes that try too hard to be entirely okay. The sounds of the corridor beyond are muffled and Will is too aware of the closed door, of the damp fabric clinging to Blaine's shoulders, to be comfortable.

Will tries not to attribute any significance to the color of the syrup that splatters the damp spots on his white t-shirt, but Kurt's accusations from all those months ago still burn a hot reminder in his ears. _Too quick to let it slide, Schuester._

"Are you okay?"

Blaine kind-of smiles at him and Will takes it as the polite version of _that's a really stupid question_.

"I've been expecting it," Blaine admits, the accompanying shrug of his shoulders pulling his suspenders taut against his chest. Will's eyes dart away.

"I'm sorry," Will blurts and the strangest part of all is that he means it.

He isn't just annoyed that this is another of his kids being pushed around or made to feel _less_ (and technically, Blaine isn't one of his kids, he's just _a_kid). All of his kids get this, and worse, so often that it's hard to understand why this matters.

"So am I," Blaine admits as he ratchets up the wattage on his smile even if it never quite makes it to his eyes, "I've never liked grape."

That smile must short-circuit something because the _why _that has been scratching away at his brain since Blaine had walked through that crowded corridor breaks free and Will is unsurprised when he doesn't quite manage to snatch it back from the air. Self-control is becoming more elusive by the day.

Blaine watches from beneath absurdly long eyelashes, his face curiously void of expression and Will stumbles over the laundry list of reasons why he _can't _let this go, what he could possibly say to make this entire situation less awkward.

_You seemed happy there,_isn't the kind of thing he should be saying to a kid he hardly knows.

He shouldn't feel this, this _concern_, when Blaine ducks his head and his thumb grazes a spot of dye across the thin fabric near his hip.

"I have a class," he says abruptly, his chin jutting determinedly up and Will reels at the reminder that his own class is waiting, has probably set fire to the trash cans by now.

"I'll write you a hall-pass," Will mumbles as he launches forward to dig into his desk.

The door clicks shut behind him before Will can even find a pen.

.

When Puck leads them through _Mrs Robinson_ that afternoon it shouldn't feel like a revelation (an _accusation_.)

Somehow it does.

.

"And how is your," Will stumbles over the realization that he doesn't know quite what to call him, settles on, "- _Friend_ settling in?"

Kurt arches an eyebrow at him and there's something laser sharp in his eyes that has Will's instincts screaming at him to retreat. He doesn't, but it's too late anyway.

"Blaine is," Kurt frowns and waves a hand absently, "Adjusting."

"He is welcome in Glee," Will says before he can stop himself and Kurt's staring doesn't exactly allow for settling the uncomfortable surge in his chest. "If he was worried that his having been a Warbler meant he wouldn't be. Welcome, I mean."

Kurt's eyebrow peaks at previously unreached heights and Will tries not to shift under those knowing eyes.

"I'll let him know."

.

The next slushy is cherry-red and the realization that the stains marbling the front of another crisp oxford are almost the exact same color as Blaine's cold-swollen lips follows Will home that night and into his shower the next morning.

.

Rachel belts her way through _Edge of Seventeen_ the next afternoon and Will wants to swipe that damn word from the board, from his memory, from _existence _because this is the worst thing to ever happen in the history of the world.

He claps politely to the sound of, _I'm a few years older than you are, my love, _ringing in his ears with mortifying clarity.

Blaine is nowhere to be found.

.

There's a day's grace period before the weekend where it seems like maybe, whatever this thing is, it has died down. Sam and Quinn apparently missed the memo on singing uncomfortably apropos songs and Blaine is conspicuous only in his absence. But the weekend brings only the lonely quiet of his empty apartment and nothing to distract him from thoughts that would be better left alone.

By the time Monday comes he realizes that even his quiet apartment was better than this.

_"Hey!"_

Blaine looks ridiculously small next to Dave Karofsky, especially when the guy is looming like that and Will doesn't realize he's even said anything, let alone _yelled_ until Karofsky is sneering something about _making friends _and Blaine is staring at him, all wide eyes and stupidly long lashes. Karofsky slouches off before Will can even think about dragging him to Figgins' office and it all feels so inadequate, as he reaches out as if to reassure Blaine.

Will grips Blaine's shoulder, just shy of where Blaine's hands are twisted together around the strap of his satchel, and it feels like he's broken a boundary that he shouldn't, like maybe he's standing too close or sounds too concerned when he asks, "Are you alright?"

Blaine actually laughs.

It makes him smile, just a bit, and simultaneously want to send Blaine back to his pretty little cage where he was safe and far, _far_away from Will.

"Why did you come here?" Will asks again, because the question still itches at him and the only answer he can come up with is, _to ruin me_.

Blaine looks him right in the eye and Will can see the curiosity there, the _why do you care?_, but Will's hand is still clasped over Blaine's shoulder, a hairsbreadth away from Blaine's own hands, and he can't bring himself to remove it.

"Dalton was easy," Blaine says eventually, his thumb sliding absently along the leather strap of his satchel, "Too easy. Like riding a bike over flat ground."

Will's confusion must register on his face because there is a soft quirk to Blaine's lips but he doesn't elaborate.

"And this is?"

"A challenge," Blaine replies decisively, neatly stepping back out of Will's hold and flashing a broad _I'm fine _smile. "Thank you, Mr. Schuester."

Will isn't sure he believes him, but Blaine has already strolled away before he can think of anything to say.

.

Kurt sweeps into the choir room that afternoon, beaming in a way he never had before he left, and announces to the room at large, "I hope you don't mind, Mr. Schue, but I brought my own accompaniment."

Blaine flourishes one jazz hand as he is tugged into the room behind Kurt, his lips twisted in a wry grin as Sam and Finn try to unobtrusively slip past behind them.

"You're more than welcome," Will says, perhaps too brightly, but neither of them notice because Kurt is guiding Blaine to the piano bench and they're knocking elbows and their heads bow together as they laugh and murmur while the rest of the kids settle into their seats.

Eventually the quiet settles and Blaine's fingers stretch out over the keys and Kurt talks about a different kind of desire, then there are the opening notes and Will just _listens_, because it's exactly what he expected and yet it isn't. They ham up the opening dialogue and Blaine flirts with the keys and dutifully _mmm_'s and _aaah_'s with enough gusto to receive a playful whack on the arm from Kurt as they move into the chorus and Kurt shines.

It's playful and pushy and somehow their voices work together even when they play at upstaging each other almost the _entire_ time. Blaine steals a verse and Kurt swats at the back of his head but dutifully relinquishes the, _but you only want what everybody else says you should want _with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. The mood is infectious.

The club hoots and hollers enthusiastically when the final note fades and the pair smile and nod and Kurt refuses to relinquish Blaine's arm when he looks like he's going to head for the door.

Will _doesn't_ stare too hard at Kurt's fingers latched onto the crook of Blaine's arm or catalog the space between their persons from where he sits, and when Artie launches into _Mr. Brightside _it isn't painfully apropos at all.

Not at all.

.

Will hums _Grace Kelly_ in the shower the next morning and realizes (when the hot water finally runs out and he's left shivering and gasping and suddenly a lot less _distracted_) that thinking about the conviction on Blaine's face as he sang, _I could be anything you like_, is both willfully misreading the lyrical intent of the song and probably as inappropriate as it gets.

He knows that he's already too far gone when he realizes that he can't bring himself to care.

.

Will's lunchtime is spent futilely trying to finish grading papers from one of his freshmen classes and he's distracted enough by thoughts of _Cary Grant_-hair and a wardrobe full of suspenders, waistcoats, silk ties and pocket-watches that he almost passes a paper comprised entirely of the Taco Bell menu (which would almost be impressive if it weren't also so disheartening.)

The unmistakable slam of a body colliding with the lockers is loud enough to draw his attention even through his closed office door, he hears the yelling when he's rising from his chair and hurries. What he sees isn't what he'd expected.

It isn't seeing Santana shoving Karofsky _hard_, looking like she's going to try and claw his eyes out while she hurls the kind of language that Will pretends not to hear in the hallways, that stops him. It's seeing Brittany, with her arm wound through a shell-shocked Blaine's, _lick _away the spill of cherry from his jaw and earnestly say, "You look good in red," that stills him in the doorway.

Blaine laughs, suddenly unconcerned by the steadily melting mess that is rolling down his face and seeping into the pinstriped fabric of his waistcoat.

Will's mouth is inexplicably dry as he hovers in his office door and struggles to get his tongue to work so he can break it up before Santana makes good on her promise to shank Karofsky with her nail-file.

The entire time that he is handing out detention for Karofsky and a fairly transparent 'reprimand' to Santana, he stares somewhat stupidly at the rivers of syrup and ice that drip from Blaine's jaw and slide down his neck.

He's almost positive the smirk Santana shoots him as she and Brittany leave, hooking pinkies as they walk and leaving Blaine dripping and sticky and _alone _in the hallway with him, has nothing to do with getting off Scot-free.

.

This is really, _really _inappropriate. Will knows it and Blaine knows it too, if the uncomfortable looks he keeps shooting towards the bathroom door are any indication, but Will can't help himself and Blaine isn't stopping him. Blaine's skin is shockingly cold against his as he carefully washes away the sticky remnants of syrup from his face and hair.

He watches _Cary Grant_-hair transform into wild, dripping curls beneath his fingers and feels his skin slowly return to a normal temperature. Will tries not to stare at the patches of cherry-red that have soaked into the collar of Blaine's shirt and the sticky rivers of red that carve down the exposed line of his neck.

He tries to resist the urge to taste that skin or think about how cherry might be his new favorite flavor, how the proximity demanded by something like washing his hair is something that would probably be accompanied by a _Bad Touch_ caption in every sexual harassment seminar _ever_. He tries to derail that train of thought by saying, "I wanted to ask you to audition for Glee Club, officially that is."

Blaine's eyelids flutter open and the whites of his eyes are irritated and red. "I don't think that would be appropriate."

Will almost jerks away, his fingers stilling in their motions at the panicking realization that he's being called out for this _whatever it is _he's doing here, but then Blaine looks away and he chews his lower lip for a moment. "I don't just know the Warblers set list for Regionals, I helped arrange half of it."

"Regionals is over a month away," Will replies and he must sound surprised because Blaine kind of frowns up at him. "Your club will have plenty of time to adjust to your absence before they compete."

"I don't want there to be that temptation of knowing what your competition is doing," Blaine replies sharply. "It wouldn't be fair for me to compete for another team with that knowledge."

"You wouldn't have to compete at Regionals," Will offers and he doesn't even know what he's saying, _why_ he's saying this or why he feels like he's talking about something else entirely here. "The club would really benefit from having another voice."

Blaine stares up at him and from here he can see that his eyelashes are stuck together in clumps, that his eyes are puzzlingly bright beneath the halogen lights and Will realizes that he's been, somewhat mortifyingly, cradling Blaine's cheek for the entire conversation.

"Think about it," he surmises as he jerks his hand away and turns off the water.

He can still see Blaine's reflection from the corner of his eye as he turns away to dry off his hands, so when Blaine tilts his head, stares hard at Will's back and says, "I will," he's able to see the strange, almost-smile that tugs at the corners of his lips.

.

In fifth period Santana hums the chorus of _Satisfaction _every time he walks past.

When the class ends he can't get out of there fast enough.

.

Will is just curious. That's it. Blaine is new, _unknown_ even, and he is curious. That is the only reason he needs to know these things.

If only Kurt didn't look quite so – well, _knowing_, whenever he brought him up.

"Is there a reason that Dave Karofsky is so interested in your friend?"

He tries to slip it casually into the conversation, like Kurt won't react badly if it's couched in between the standard, _'How is your dad doing?'_ and _'Do you miss Dalton at all?'_

It isn't the question that Will wants to ask (that one ends a lot more like, _'Is it because he's your boyfriend?'_) but it gets a reaction that Will doesn't anticipate.

Kurt turns pale, his mouth wide with surprise which turns to confusion and then veers towards anger (worry?) as he demands, "What do you mean?"

Will wants to silence the voice in his head that says, _interesting_, as he replies, "I've noticed him giving Blaine some trouble over the last week."

Kurt shifts in his seat and, yeah, he's definitely angry now. "What kind of trouble?"

Will has always suspected there was more to Kurt's decision to transfer to Dalton than he was ever told. Now he's certain of it.

"It seemed more personal," Will says cautiously.

Kurt's eyes dart away and Will could swear he mutters, "That _idiot._"

Will doesn't know what to make of it when Kurt looks him hard in the eye and implores him to keep an eye on Blaine. The last thing he needs is an excuse – let alone _permission _to indulge in this thing that's gathering momentum inside of him.

He promises anyway, because Will's never been good at doing what's best for him.

.

He's misplaced his sheet music.

It's not like Will is looking for him, like he's stalking him or anything so ridiculous as that. Blaine just happens to be there and Will doesn't want to disrupt him, not when his eyes are closed, the violin tucked in against his neck and the bow is dangling loosely from one hand while his fingers ghost silently through position.

It's a sight that Will doesn't know how to deal with, his mind rebelling against an overflow of nimble fingers and eyelashes that are long enough to flutter against his cheekbones, so he backs away from the door and resolves to come back later.

He thinks he sees a flash of a Letterman jacket as he hurries back to his office, but he's in enough of a rush to be anywhere not in Blaine's immediate proximity that it doesn't really register -

- _Until _he reaches his office.

Suddenly he's hurrying back the way he came, his heart thudding wildly in his chest as his brain chants, _stupid, stupid, so, _so_ stupid_.

Karofsky is standing outside the choir room door, his hand hovering over the door handle. Will slows when he realizes Karofsky isn't moving, that he's just staring through the narrow pane of glass with an odd expression on his face.

The muffled sound of the violin escaping from the room is high and eerie, a cascade of violent notes that catches Will's breath in his throat and snags some part of Karofsky's psyche, renders him quiet and confused. But then he looks away and catches sight of Will standing there and his face floods with color. A familiar sneer twists his lips as he hurries off in the opposite direction.

Before he knows it Will's standing at the door, staring through the same glass pane that Karofsky had been giving his full attention, his fingers wrapping around the handle and the music pierces through him as he steps inside.

Blaine's eyes flutter open when the door _snicks_ shut behind him, the bow scraping against the strings for just a moment before he corrects himself. Will strides towards the piano where he can see the neat stack of his sheet music waiting right where he'd left it earlier that afternoon. He tries not to look as he gathers the paper up in his hands but he can feel Blaine's eyes follow him across the room and _that music_.

He hesitates to call it pretty, because in all honesty it's closer to _terrifying _than beautiful, but there's something mesmerizing there that draws Will's eyes back to Blaine again and again in hurried, nervous glances. He studies the strong curve of his jaw-line, traces the elegant high cheekbones and the slope of his nose. He's far too easy to look at.

He doesn't realize the music has finished, that Blaine has untucked the violin from his chin and that the bow is dangling loosely from his fingers again until he meets Blaine's amused eyes.

"That was very good," Will says to try and cover the massive amounts of awkward that have followed him into the room.

"It was awful," Blaine corrects him lightly with a self-deprecating smile. "Mr. Fitzgerald would be appalled."

"I left these," Will adds after another stilted silence, cradling the sheet music to his chest. "I didn't mean to interrupt your practice."

Blaine just gives him one of those sort-of smiles that make Will feel like he knows far more than he's letting on.

"Have you given any more thought to joining Glee?"

It slips out before Will can stop it and he watches the sort-of smile slip into something more neutral. "I've thought about it."

Will wants to ask, '_what does that even mean?_' but Blaine is suddenly striding across the room towards him and his mouth is running dry and utterly unresponsive to his brain's demands. But then Blaine's moved past him and is carefully stowing violin and bow away in the battered leather case that sits atop the piano.

Will winces and shifts uncomfortably, "You don't have to leave. I was just going."

Blaine glances up as he's snapping the latches closed and smiles as he gestures to the violin, "I promised I'd have this back to Ms. Ferguson before four."

"It's not yours?" Will asks before catching sight of the WMHS scrawled in marker across the faded leather.

Blaine makes an oddly amused sound and looks sideways at him, "No offense, Mr. Schuester, but I am far too attached to my violin to bring it to this school."

Will thinks he should probably be appalled that a student felt their property would be unsafe on school grounds, but really, who would he be kidding?

"Kurt told me the choir room was empty most afternoons when you don't have practice," Blaine adds as he leans back against the piano and Will's fingers clench around the music bundled against his chest. "I left my violin back home and I haven't had a chance to play in a while."

"It sounded," Will replies too eagerly before realizing that he doesn't know how to finish that sentence, Amazing? Scary? Lonely? "_Good_," he finishes lamely.

"Mr. Schuester," Blaine is staring at him with sudden intent and he's practically projecting _patience_ and _understanding_ in a way that's painfully reminiscent of Emma (minus the deer-in-the-headlights horror she always gets when confronted with an actual conflict or problem) and really the last thing he needs to be doing is drawing parallels between Blaine and _Emma_.

"I know that you feel," there's a pause as if he's considering his words very carefully before Blaine tilts his head upward, just so, so he can meet Will's eyes, "- _Badly _about not being able to help Kurt before, but you don't have to.."

He trails off and Will realizes that Blaine really _believes_ that this is about Kurt. That Will is trying to make up for how badly he'd failed Kurt by keeping an eye on his friend. He wishes it were that simple.

_I'm worried about you._"Kurt is worried about you."

Blaine's smile is fond, bordering on exasperated, as he replies, "_Kurt_ thinks I'm a coddled little rich boy."

He must see something on Will's face (possibly reminiscent of _aren't you?_) because he actually _really_ smiles this time, with crinkled eyes and everything, and amends, "Okay, well I'm not _just _a coddled little rich boy."

Will isn't sure whether it's appropriate to laugh, (he's pretty sure nothing short of running as fast he can in the opposite direction is appropriate when it comes to this boy) but he does anyway and it has the desired reaction of prolonging that smile for a few more moments.

Blaine's fingers skitter aimlessly over the battered violin case, his smile softening into something more neutral as he says, "What I'm trying to say is that it's really nice of you to look out for me, but you don't have to."

"It's kind of in my job description," Will says, trying his best to play off the uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of his stomach with a smile.

"Not in my experience," Blaine replies, a little bitterly, and when Will turns to look his eyes are shut and he's taking a deep, steadying breath.

The kid is so old-Hollywood, old-money, old-word charm, such an old soul – sometimes it is too easy for Will to forget how _young _he actually is. It's jarring to see the transformation when that self-assured exterior falters.

"I _want _to," Will throws back before he can consider the implications of saying something like that and sure enough Blaine's eyes have snapped open to stare at him in confusion.

Will realizes a little too late that he's sort of leaning toward Blaine, that his fingers are skimming along beneath the elastic of his suspenders, that there's sheet music scattered around them across the floor.

Will surges forward before his brain can catch up, his lips catching somewhere between Blaine's mouth and jaw when Blaine hurriedly turns his face away, his cheeks flushed pink as he mumbles, "I need to return this."

Will feels sick to his stomach as he watches Blaine all but bolt from the room, the violin case clutched tight against his chest like a shield.

_.  
><em>

_Mr. Brightside_ is playing simultaneously on three separate radio stations as he gets into his car and just drives, leaving behind all of his papers for grading, lesson plans and his briefcase. The pile of sheet music sits on his passenger seat, Cheap Trick's, _I Want You To Want Me_, silently mocking him from the corner of his eye.

He changes stations again, unable to bear the words, _how did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss_, bouncing around in his head. He's certain he never wants to hear the word _kiss_ again, can hardly believe that he just tried to kiss a student. Just tried to kiss Blaine.

He shudders when a car jingle on his fourth consecutive station gives way to a far too familiar beat and then Sting is singing,_ young teacher, the subject, of schoolgirl fantasy_. He jabs for the radio again and wants to scream when it faithfully denies, _it was only a kiss, it was only a kiss_-

He drives around town until the warning light flicks on to tell him he's running out of gas and the radio is almost drowned out by the roar of the wind through his open windows. He pulls into a gas station and as he wanders through the store, picks up a bottle of water and tries to compose himself, the radio overhead drawls, _Is your daddy home? Did he go and leave you all alone? I got a bad desire_, and it's clear that the world hates him.

He realizes, as he's slinking back into the school to pick up his briefcase when only the janitors are left behind, that the reason he's so shaken isn't because he'd tried to kiss Blaine, it's that Blaine had turned away.

.

Will stares at his ceiling for the entire night and tries to ignore the suggestions his mind gives him,_ what if_ he didn't turn his head, _what if_ he didn't run away, _what if.._

.

Blaine doesn't show up at all the next day, or if he does, Will never sees him.

He waits for some sign that Blaine has told someone something, half-expects Kurt to jump him in a hallway or to find Santana lurking in a dark corridor with her nail file, ready to defend her new territory, but all is quiet.

Sue tries to initiate a citizen's arrest on him for (hair-)crimes against the ozone layer, his second period class celebrate the delay in the return of Tuesday's pop quiz and Rachel, in yet another bid to win back Finn's heart through the medium of classic rock, rips into _Piece Of My Heart_ while Mercedes rolls her eyes and Kurt buries his face in her shoulder.

Tina and Mike whisper to each other while Artie alternates between shooting them dark looks and being distracted by Brittany's enthusiastic fist-pumping next to him. Sam and Quinn hold hands, Puck naps and Finn is caught in a perpetual cycle of annoyed, confused and impressed.

It's too normal. Like the entire world has shifted beneath their feet and nobody except Will has noticed.

Rachel finishes with a triumphant look on her face that deflates rapidly when Santana sweeps from her seat and slinks through _Call Me_ with a wicked smile on her lips. Brittany gets out of her seat to dance this time and manages to coax Quinn to her feet and if Will was on his game he would be telling them to tone it down, or doing _something_, because Rachel looks crushed. But Will is distracted.

He catches Kurt on his way out and tries not to make too much of the frown he wears when he tells him, "He wasn't feeling well today, Mr. Schue."

.

The path to Emma's office is one he's been avoiding at all costs lately, but today his feet drag him there with purpose.

She stares up at him with wide doe eyes as he makes excuses like, "_I'm worried for him_," and when she neatly, precisely copies Blaine's address out of his file onto pristine note-paper, folds it twice and hands it over he feels like the biggest jerk on the planet.

He feels like maybe he's lost his mind, like he's actively watching his sanity seep out through the soles of his shoes, because there is no way that this can end well. His car rattles and hums around him as he navigates unfamiliar streets, his thoughts loud against the quiet interior of his car. The radio silenced because he can't trust it not to actively conspire against him.

The streetlights are just starting to flicker on when he parks his car out on the street and stares up the drive. The neighborhood is nice, the condo quiet with a landscaped lawn, the bottom floor is dark but a square of yellow light floods out through one of the windows upstairs.

Will chances another look down at the note in his hand, crumples it in his fist and tosses it onto his passenger seat. He takes a breath, tries to talk himself out of this, but the churning in his gut demands he do _something _to fix this so he clambers out of his car and hurries up the pathway and stone steps leading to the second floor.

He knocks before his sudden fears can get the better of him, the voice that hisses _'What if his mother opens the door? What if his father opens the door? What do I even say to him?' _in his ear growing louder as he realizes he can hear music floating through an open window and then there's the scrape of the lock and the door swings open.

Blaine is barefoot, scruffy in sweatpants and a t-shirt that's liberally stained with splatters of purple that had obviously eluded his washing machine. His hair is fluffy and ungelled, curling over wide, surprised eyes as he squints against the dark and asks, "Mr. Schuester?"

The surprise quickly passes, followed by a frown and a clipped, "I don't think you should be here."

Will shifts, digging his fingers into his pockets to keep them from doing anything stupid. He means to say, '_I wanted to apologize to you_', and follow up with the speech he'd rehearsed in his head on the drive over. What comes out is a comparably horrific, "Are your parents home?"

Blaine shifts his body to block more of the doorway as he says, "My father's out of town."

Which clearly means, _I'm alone_, if the uncomfortable look Blaine casts over his shoulder means anything. This produces a whole new world of possibilities and worries to Will's mind and he _should _just apologize and walk back to his car with the hope that Blaine lets this go as a terrible mistake.

Instead he hovers on the doorstep and Blaine shifts uncomfortably, frowning, before he takes a step back from the door, a shaky breath and offers, "Do you want to come in?"

He ignores the screaming protests of his brain that say _No, No, God, No,_and follows Blaine inside, the sound of the door shutting behind him is as good as a sentencing. The inside is as nice as the outside, the furniture and fittings are new and that's the TV that Will had been looking at in the store last week. But the place is small, too small for a family.

Will glances awkwardly from the flat-screen mounted on the wall to the cabinet of game consoles, from the extensive DVD collection lining the shelves to the hefty pile of textbooks sitting on the floor next to the chair that he hesitantly sits in, all of which are conveniently _not_ Blaine.

Blaine takes the couch, shuffling away the bundled fabric of a comforter into a pile beside him. They sit in strained silence, Blaine's eyes shifting periodically to the laptop that is shuffling lazily through his iTunes library before he lets out a sigh and turns to look determinedly at Will.

"I didn't tell anyone," he says softly.

Will doesn't know what to say to that, _thank you _seems terribly inappropriate all things considered, so he just sort of nods. He opens his mouth to try to apologize again but Blaine is pushing himself back to his feet and offering Will a drink and Will's eyes are caught on the faded Dalton insignia stamped down the side of Blaine's thigh.

Will doesn't know what possesses him to follow Blaine to the kitchen except that the breakfast bar is suddenly, very conveniently _there _and when he pushes Blaine up against it, presses him into the polished surface, he realizes that this is the last thing he wants to apologize for.

Blaine looks up at him through absurdly long lashes (and hell, Will has always been such a sucker for pretty eyes), his lips parted in a startled sort of gasp and he's solid and warm beneath Will's hands as his fingers snag purchase in the thin cotton of his shirt.

He starts to say, "Mr. Sch-"

This time, when Will kisses him, he doesn't miss.

* * *

><p><em>Music Guide;<em>  
>as it appears chronologically<br>_Mrs Robinson_, Simon & Garfunkle  
><em>Edge of Seventeen<em>, Stevie Nicks  
><em>Grace Kelly<em>, Mika  
><em>Mr. Brightside<em>, The Killers  
><em>(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction<em>, Rolling Stones.  
><em>Melodia<em>, Bartok's Solo Violin Sonata (Third Movement)  
><em>I Want You To Want Me<em>, Cheap Trick  
><em>Don't Stand So Close To Me<em>, Sting & The Police  
><em>I'm On Fire<em>, Bruce Springsteen  
><em>Piece of My Heart<em>, Janis Joplin  
><em>Call Me<em>, Blondie


End file.
